


Autumn and Spring

by OctoberSkies



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Trespasser, Tevinter Imperium, pavellan - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 10:31:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6514531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctoberSkies/pseuds/OctoberSkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post-trespasser. Dorian and Varlen are together in Tevinter for a time, but sometimes the smallest discoveries can call forth larger, hollow realisations. So, when Dorian finds a single grey hair, Varlen discovers there is more on his lover’s mind than simple appearances. </p>
            </blockquote>





	Autumn and Spring

 

 

Varlen sighed softly, arching his back and feeling the pleasant pull of his stomach muscles as he roused himself from a long night’s sleep. The darkness of the room was well-settled around him, the sun’s demanding rays blocked out by thick curtains. If he allowed it, he could almost fool himself into thinking it was still night. That the ever-encroaching day wasn’t quite there yet, and he could spend just a few warm moments longer with…

… glancing across, Varlen noted with a pang of disappointment that Dorian was no longer lying beside him, all tousled hair and parted lips. Perfect in his looseness.

_Of course he would be up already._

He had been rising hours earlier than normal lately, and although Varlen had been aware of it, he had yet to catch him in the act. Either Dorian was extremely sly about it all, or Varlen was a heavier sleeper than he had led himself to believe.

“Dorian?” his voice was an intruder in the capacious room, dispersing in the air like steam off a hot tap. Varlen closed his mouth, suddenly acutely aware of himself, draped in silken sheets. They were deep burgundy, lavish in both shade and expense. Not for the first time, he felt alarmingly out of place. Tevinter was like a spurned lover – a part of it still tried to lure Varlen in with its relentless charm and warm demeanour. But beneath it all was danger, and the curling finger that beckoned him was born of spite. Waiting for the perfect moment to knock Varlen down from whatever cloud he might find himself on, and remind him of everything he was not. He rejected the Imperium as much as it rejected him, but it was a rather imbalanced relationship. It was a powerful nation, and he was just one man.

But so was Dorian. And Dorian still fought.

So would he.

Sliding off the bed, Varlen moved silently over the plush carpet of the bedroom. His feet shuffled along, enjoying the feel of the fibres against his skin. When Varlen finally reached the bathroom door, he noticed it was closed but unlocked. Perhaps Dorian had already left entirely?

Regardless, Varlen knocked, his knuckles rapping gently against the thick wood. “Dorian? You in there?”

Silence. With a shrug to himself, Varlen eased the door open. It didn’t creak. Not even a little bit, despite the heavy weight upon the hinges. Of course it didn’t. Nothing here escaped the wrath of Dorian’s perfectionism. Had it creaked once, it would have been well before the mage had taken up residency.

Varlen stopped, his hand still on the door, as a figure came into view. He hesitated, the door freezing in its slow arc, before tilting his head in silent query. In front of the basin stood Dorian, his hands flat against its porcelain edges. His eyes were intent upon the mirror, which reflected back his icy stare. Sensing he had interrupted something, Varlen almost edged back out of the room. However, his questioning side caught up to him, and instead, he took a slow step in.

“Dorian…?” Varlen wasn’t sure of what to say. Of what was going through his lover’s head. All he knew was that his stare was unwavering, as though his image in the glossy surface had wronged him on a personal and unforgivable level. But, at the sound of his murmured name, Dorian blinked, his gaze suddenly snapping back into sharp focus. He did not turn to look at Varlen. Instead, he watched him through the mirror, and Varlen met the quiet eyes of his reflection.

“You’re up early.” he said, his voice possessing of its usual lilting charm as he offered Varlen a dashing half-smile. “Apologies, amatus. I did try not to wake you.”

Shaking his head, Varlen let the bathroom door shut behind him. “No, it’s all right. I was glad I caught you for once, actually. You’re pretty sneaky, for someone who claims they’re not a morning person.”

A dry laugh broke past Dorian’s lips, and he closed his eyes, tilting his head down towards the basin. That movement, coupled with the hunch of his back as he curved forward, gave off the distinct air of… of what? Defeat? Dejection? Exhaustion? Varlen wasn’t sure what exactly, but the echo of concern it left resonating inside him was not something he could ignore.

“Is everything all right?” Varlen asked, taking another step closer to Dorian. It was not a large space, so the distance between them now was little more than a foot in length. Without further hesitation, Varlen reached up, placing his hand on Dorian’s back, resting between his shoulder blades. He was tense beneath Varlen’s palm, every muscle held at rigid attention. Like a soldier on parade.

Or on trial.

A feeble smile danced across Dorian’s lips, and for a moment, it seemed like he was about to offer one of his habitual bluffs. One picked out of his extensive repertoire; perhaps a flippant ‘ _Oh amatus,_ _I’m always all right’,_ or maybe a charmingly delivered ‘ _who me? I’ve_ _never been better’_. However, at the last moment, such a charade seemed to register as inadequate. Unnecessary. After all, it was only Varlen.

Instead, Dorian inhaled slowly, and let the air drain out of him in a gentle stream. The whole act felt as tired as he looked. Not physically. Not what you see when catch him at a glance, sweeping past in a corridor. No. Outwardly, he was as powerful and radiant as the sun. He could bring a room to heel with nothing but the twinge of his eye or the shape of his lips as they curled disdainfully at the display of a fellow magister. But when Varlen met his eyes – _his_ eyes, not those of his mirror image – he did not see a man brimming with purpose and conviction. What he saw was something hollow. Something lacking. And when Dorian spoke, that same sense of absence trailed his words as they left his tongue.

“I found a grey hair today.”

Varlen blinked, his hand briefly hesitating in its soothing, circular motion on Dorian’s back. However, it quickly resumed its motion, and continued on its quest to coax Dorian’s tight muscles into relaxation.

“Is that why you’re still here?” Varlen asked gently, and Dorian just nodded, not quite willing to look up and risk meeting Varlen’s gaze. Or maybe it was his own he feared, staring back at him in the mirror. Moving a little closer, Varlen switched to both his hands, moving them slowly across Dorian’s bare back. Not necessarily trying to tear him away from the basin, but wanting to simply be present. To be near.

Varlen knew this was about more than a simple grey hair. Even for Dorian, who prided himself on his immaculate appearance, this was more of a response than such a discovery demanded.  

“Talk to me…” Varlen said, leaning forward to rest his lips comfortingly against Dorian’s bare skin. The sigh Dorian let out was near imperceptible, save for the slight rise and fall of his shoulders that accompanied it.

“There is just so much to do, amatus.” he began slowly, as though not trusting himself with his own words. As though his thoughts, that had kept him so arrested before the mirror, deserved only to be locked away in the corners of his mind and left to fester in the dark. “A year passes by and it’s as though the progress we have made – if any, mind you – can be reduced to a few points on a single page. And of that page, only half of it is actually notable. The rest is just…” he raised one hand and waved in the air beside his head, as though dispersing a persistent, irritating fog. Then, he let it drop heavily back down to the basin’s edge. The rest of his sentence, if he had even intended to voice it, died with the movement. It was as though he simply did not have the energy for it all. Not anymore.

Varlen’s brow flickered slightly, and he drew away from Dorian’s skin, freeing his lips for speech. He still wasn’t sure what to say. How to help. This was never going to be easy, but Dorian already knew that. He didn’t need to hear it when he was reminded of the fact every day. Battled it every time he faced the magisterium, and looked on in frustration as his fellows desperately clung to their archaic traditions. Clutched at them like the first fraying threads of a tapestry, terrified that it was starting to unravel. Piece by piece. Thread by thread. Slowly, but surely.

“It’s like autumn and spring.” Varlen said eventually, switching to run his hands up and down the length of Dorian’s tense arms. At the comment, Dorian raised his head, his eyebrow arching slightly in the mirror. Even that quizzical expression, so at home upon his face, seemed listless and weary.

“I can’t imagine how you came to such a poetic comparison.” Dorian said, but Varlen just gave him a slow smile. One that silently asked for a chance to explain. Dorian granted it with the gracious wordlessness of a dancer, offering his partner a solo on the floor. Varlen accepted the invitation with equal grace.

“Summer and winter, well… they’re harsh, depending on where you are.” Varlen said. “Too hot or too cold. Either way, people tend to like one or the other, but rarely both equally. They have a preference because they exist as opposites. But autumn and spring…” he paused, smiling to himself again, as though indulging in a private thought. “… they’re… slower. Calmer _._ They trickle between the hot and cold, and ease the world into a new state. In autumn, the leaves fall. The result isn’t pretty, and it takes time to get there, but in the end, it had to be done so the tree can survive the winter.”

For a time, Dorian said nothing. He barely even looked up. Then, a few words found his lips. They sounded lost, but… searching.

“So this is the autumn of the Imperium, then?” he said quietly. The question seemed almost rhetorical, as though he was acknowledging it rather than asking. “Where we shake the leaves off the tree, to continue with your analogy.” He let out a low hum, thrumming his fingers on the edge of the basin. “And I suppose that means that, once this deplorable season is over, things will get even harder. Yes? Delightful.”

Varlen let out a soft laugh, more of an exhale really, and moved around to Dorian’s side, one hand still resting on the man’s back. Present, but not pushing.

“Yes, that’s true,” Varlen acknowledged with a thoughtful nod, “but the old leaves will be gone. What is left… well, it might not look as beautiful at a glance. It might even tread the line between alive and dead, to someone who missed the fall. In winter, the days are shorter, the nights are longer, and sometimes it feels like the world has frozen solid. That it might stay that way forever.”

Varlen reached over, and his fingertips found the far side of Dorian’s face. Slowly, gently, he applied pressure, until Dorian tiredly allowed Varlen to turn his head towards him. When their gazes met, there was blue and grey in perfect harmony.

“But it won’t,” Varlen continued with slow deliberateness, “because the next month is spring. It always had been, and it always will be. Winter gets cold – bitterly cold – and then it goes away. It thaws, because the sun fights its way through the clouds. Because the grass is tired of being smothered by snow and the new leaves are bursting with life, just waiting for the signal.”

Holding Varlen’s gaze, Dorian’s wavered for a moment, as though he would be more comfortable looking away. But, Dorian pushed through the sensation, and the corner of his mouth twitched up on a small yet warm gesture. A fleeting mirror of Varlen’s own gentle smile.

“I see… and, my wise amatus, what might that signal be?”

Like melting butter, Varlen’s eyes softened, and he leaned in slowly, brushing his lips against Dorian’s. Closing his eyes, he hovered for a moment, just barely touching his vhenan’s soft skin. When the time felt right, Varlen let his warm breath carry a single word of response from his lips.

“ _You_.”

Despite himself – despite everything – Varlen felt Dorian’s mouth curve into a quiet smile against his own. Relished the way Dorian pushed against him ever so slightly, the feel of his lips as warm and inviting as a hearth in the heart of winter. And indeed, Dorian was the hearth. The heart. The place where dead trees were turned into something beautiful and warm and alive again. Dorian would thaw the ice because he saw the potential that lay beyond the season.

And Varlen? Varlen saw the potential in _him_.

If he had to, he would remind him of it every single day.


End file.
